Of Tea and Trust
by Dapper Monk
Summary: While waiting to be extracted, Clint's new partner learns to trust him over a cup of tea.


Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers or any other works from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. All rights are reserved to Warner Bros., Joss Whedon, and any other entitled parties.

* * *

It was one of their first missions together. The partnership was still fresh, breakable, and undeniably one-sided.

It was an easy job. Infiltrate the mob boss's HQ, shoot him, and get out. It was one of Fury's attempts at a trial run; to see how the two agents worked together.

The mission itself had all gone according to plan, with the exception of one little snag. A blizzard had picked up out of no where, leaving the two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to seek shelter in some old building ruins.

They took shelter in what appeared to be an old stairwell. To fight off the cold, Agent Barton had started a small fire. It also provided enough light to be able to examine their wounds effectively.

Which is where it really gets interesting.

"Well," Clint sighed. "S.H.I.E.L.D. can't extract us 'till morning." He slipped the mobile device into his pocket and looked down at his new partner.

Natasha was currently lying up against the concrete wall, forehead resting on her knees, wrapped up in a blanket.

They were both pretty beat up; covered in scrapes and cuts. Clint had bandaged himself up using supplies from his tactical belt, all the meanwhile brewing some tea over the tiny fire.

Natasha instead had practically thrown herself against the corner, and had wrapped the blanket around her and buried her face into it. Clint took the majority of the damage, but Natasha had been stricken with a fever for the past hour or so.

"How you feeling?" Clint raised a careful hand to his partner's forehead.

Natasha didn't respond, prompting further investigation.

"I'm fine," Natasha mumbled as Clint placed a firm hand on her blanketed forearm.

"No, you're not," Clint decided. "You're burning up."

It takes a minute to get a response. "Burning up?"

"You're running a fever," Clint clarified. " 'should really look up some English idioms sometime."

Natasha let out a frustrated puff of air, while still trying to keep her breathing steady.

"What's under the blanket?" Clint asked, changing the conversation. Even though his voice was sweet, Natasha heard the steely suspicion behind it.

"Nothing."

"No." Clint's hand shot out to grab a handful of blanket and rip it from her. "We bandage each other up."

Natasha sighed and rested her head against the concrete wall, since it's previous resting spot had been interrupted. Her right arm was clenched tight against her torso, hand resting protectively over her left rib cage. It's not easy to see in the darkness, but thanks to the light coming off the small fire, Clint could make out blood.

She gave Clint a menacing glare. "_Mudak," _she spat.

"Natasha," Clint's voice became noticeably softer. "If you're hurt ... you say something."

"I take care ... of myself," she snapped.

"Not anymore," Clint's voice was gentle, but unwaivering. "Bullet or knife?"

Natasha looked into his eyes, consenting to his treatment. "Knife."

"Take it off," Clint ordered, motioning to the top of her catsuit.

"No," Natasha refused.

Clint gave her the most unimpressed look she had ever seen.

"Barton, I don't ... wear anything ... underneath," she continued, feeling a need to explain.

Clint raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "I've seen more impressive."

"No ... you haven't," Natasha called him out.

"Well someone's got some confidence," Clint teased, but gave her the shirt underneath his utility jacket all the same.

"Turn ... around," Natasha ordered. Clint rolled his eyes, but complied.

" ' good?" Clint mumbled, turning back around regardless of the answer.

"Da," Natasha nodded, her voice labored from the effort to remove herself from the suit.

Natasha was glistening with sweat, despite the fact it was fucking _snowing_. The torso part of the catsuit was bunched around her waist, as she had logically opted to leave her legs covered. The t-shirt was tied into a knot several inches above the wound, giving Clint a clear view. (Of the wound, of course)

The wound itself wasn't too bad. Probably four or five inches long, half an inch deep, and curving in a way parallel to her hipbone two inches below. There was a decent amount of blood oozing out, but at a slow rate, so Clint wasn't overly worried about blood loss.

What did worry him though, was the sickly shade of green around the cut.

"How?" He looked away from the wound up into her eyes. Even this young into their partnership, Clint knew it was almost impossible to land a hit on Natasha.

* * *

_Clint had his back pushed up against the dusty concrete wall. Natasha stood a foot out, shooting rapidly at oncoming attackers._

_"We gotta get out of 'ere," Clint grunted. They were both panting heavily, but Clint had a trail of blood trickling out from his scalp that was affecting his vision._

_"Go," Natasha ordered, firing two more well-placed shots through the hallway. She turned on her heel and ran for the stairs at the end of the hallway. Clint sprinted after, right on her tail._

_It was a blur, really._

_Clint grunted as blood seeped over his eyes, causing him to misjudge the step and crash to the floor. "Nat!" he yelled in warning. "Go!"_

_Natasha glanced down to her fallen partner, making a split second decision to save him instead of protecting herself. Her arms wrapped around his upper torso and pulled._

_To be honest, a part of her saw the knife hurtling towards her fallen partner's head. The other part only saw him._

_As she pulled up, the knife missed him completely. Instead, it flew against her side, splitting the skin._

_Natasha grunted in pain as she pulled Clint over the last step. She flung Clint off to the side, where he started running down the perpendicular hallway._

_Natasha plucked the offending knife off the floor and flung it at their assailant; sprinting behind her partner only after seeing the blade burrow into deep into the enemy's head._

* * *

Clint nodded in gratefulness, a "thank you" going unspoken between them.

" ' don't think you need stitches," Clint told her, going back to prod the wound.

Natasha let out a hiss and grabbed his wrist in a bone-crushing hold. To her surprise, Clint's remained completely calm, his eyes silently requesting she let go.

She slowly unwrapped her fingers from his forearm, and he was free to pull out a medical kit from his belt.

"No," she declined, this time gently fending his hands away. "My body ... can fight it."

"Fight what?" Clint mumbled. Natasha shifted slightly, realizing he hadn't quite come to the conclusion of her wound.

"The knife ... was coated ..." Natasha gasped, in-between breaths. "With venom."

Clint's eyes widened slightly, now understanding the cause of the green tint of the skin around the wound. "I don't have antibiotics," he cursed himself.

"No ... " Natasha assured him. "The Red Room ... training, will ... be fine."

Clint decided the matter would be better left alone, trusting her judgment. She wasn't going to bleed out, and the fever was caused by her enhanced immune system fighting the venom. The best thing Clint could do is wait.

Natasha closed her eyes, breathing in and out deeply. Her face scrunched up occasionally when a particularly strong wave of pain hit.

Clint busied himself by re-wrapping the bandage around his head, then pouring himself a cup of tea.

"Tea?" Clint offered his beaten metal cup out to his partner.

Natasha opened one eye to give him an evil glare.

"Guess not," Clint chuckled good-naturally, sipping from the cup.

They were silent for a little while. Clint had to admit, whatever the Russians had put in Natasha's system, it was working. The green tinge seemed to fade, and the wound had stopped bleeding almost completely.

"Natasha ... what does it feel like?" Clint can't help but ask.

Natasha opened her eyes in surprise. "Like ... needles. Tingling, in a wave."

Clint nodded, his curiosity sated. He kept looking at her, staring at something within her.

"What?" Natasha questioned, noticing his glaze. She couldn't read his eyes; a nuisance that bugged her much more than she should've allowed.

Clint look a noisy slurp or tea before speaking. He sucked his lips inward to catch the residual liquid. "You should learn to trust me. Might save your life one day."

* * *

_"Nat, do you have a lock on the target?" Clint questioned over the comm._

_She nodded slightly, knowing he could see her through his scope._

_"Eliminate the target," Clint ordered._

_Natasha did not make a single movement. "There are too many," she argued._

_"No," Clint commanded. "You're losing your window. Trust me! I have your back."_

_"Barton, it won't work," Natasha's voice was as cold as steel._

_"Trust. Me." Clint grumbled into his comm._

_But Natasha had waited a second too long._

_"You've been made," Clint roared into the comm. "Nat, get out!"_

_He fired three shots at the target, before scrambling to pack up the sniper rifle._

_"Shit," Clint groaned, before running outside into the chaos._

* * *

"Trust has gotten me nowhere," Natasha spat darkly.

"Really?" Clint sneered. "Because it almost got both of us killed today." Now that it was obvious his partner wasn't in any immediate danger, his anger over the afternoon's events could be freely released.

Natasha did not bother to look at him, instead keeping a determined glare straight ahead.

"We're partners now," Clint ranted. "You trust me. I trust you."

"_Do_ you trust me?" Natasha snapped, fixating him with an angry glare. She was daring him to tell the truth.

"Yes." Clint met her eyes with a hardened determinism. He was telling the truth, and that caught her off guard.

"Why did you save me?" Natasha asked softly.

"I thought S.H.I.E.L.D. could use someone with your skil-"

"The real reason, Barton. Not the one you spat at your superior."

"I see myself in you, Natasha. Believe it or not, I had a life before S.H.I.E.L.D. too. An old friend took a chance and saved me, just like I did for you."

Natasha was silent for a very long time, contemplating his answers.

"Tell me something," Natasha requested slowly, "About your old life."

"Why?" Clint responded, his voice a mix of surprise, amusement, and anger.

"Because I will tell you something from mine."

Natasha knew the offer was too good for him to pass up.

"Okay," Clint agreed. He shuffled over to the fire to refill his cup of tea, giving him an excuse not to look at her.

"I used to have a brother," Clint confessed, staring intently at the brown liquid he was pouring. "His name was Barney."

Natasha's lips opened just a fraction; there was a mental battle going on in her head whether or not to ask about Barton's brother.

"Older or younger?" she decided.

"Older," Clint answered hoarsely. Natasha couldn't tell if he was getting choked up from anger or sorrow, but either way wasn't good.

"I used to be married," Natasha exhaled with the words, so they became thin and ghost-like.

"You were married?" Clint repeated, dumbfounded. He knew her code-name was the Black Widow, but he had never quite taken it in a literal sense.

"His name was Alexei," Natasha added, looking back at the spiraling staircase.

Clint decided to give her a moment of silence. "How old ... were you, and all?" He couldn't help but wonder this bit of information; his partner was so young already...

"Sixteen."

Clint couldn't think of anything more to say. So instead he sat and finished off his second cup of tea, all the meanwhile trying to fight down the rage bubbling in his stomach.

"Do you always muse this much, or are you feeling especially sappy today?" She asked, with one eyebrow raised at him.

Clint let out an appreciative chuckle. "You do listen to me after all," he teased.

"I have no other options," Natasha pointed out. "The pain is preventing me from sleeping."

Clint huffed in response. But the expression on his face suggested he doesn't take a single bit of her words personally.

"Well?" Natasha pursued her earlier question. "Please tell me you're not one for sentiment."

"No," Clint assured her in a solid voice that leaves no room for doubt. "Waiting up on a roof all day - spooning with a sniper rifle - tends to get boring. I think a lot when I'm up there. Something to do."

"Really? I presumed you spent the day staring down the shirts of women."

"Oh, burn, Romanoff," Clint retorted. "How long have you been holding onto that one?"

"Since I felt your scope trained on my chest this morning."

Clint just hides behind a smirk, folding his arms behind his head. Secretly though, she caught him off guard, and she knows it. However, he can't help but feel a bit impressed.

"Tasha?"

"Yes, Barton?"

"You know a lot of languages, right? What about sign language?" Clint looked at her curiously.

"No," Natasha seemed a slight bit perturbed by the fact. "I don't know it."

"Nnn," Clint agreed. "I always thought it'd be cool. Being able to talk without actually saying anything."

The corners of Natasha's mouth can't help but twist up just a fraction. "There are other ways to communicate without words, Barton."

Clint raised an eyebrow and shot her a sly smile. Alright, then. A game.

(Years later, that game is still going, but they've both gotten pretty damn good at it.)

The fire's almost died out by the time someone spoke again.

"Can I have some tea now?"

"Sure," he nodded, carefully pouring her a cup. She accepted it with the slightest nod of a thank you.

Natasha bent her head down, bringing the small metal cup up to her lips. The cup is warm in her hands, and she will never admit it, but she's actually really cold. She hesitantly sipped at the tea, not sure what to expect.

It doesn't have much of any kind of flavor. And that's exactly what she told him.

"Big swig," Clint advised, "Gets enough of the flavor."

Natasha paused for a moment, but goes ahead and does what he requested.

She took a giant gulp of the tea. And spat it right back out.

"That is awful!" she exclaimed. "Barton!"

It's hard to tell if he actually heard her cries of disgust, because Agent Barton is currently rolling around on the ground, laughing his head off.

"Barton!" Natasha barked again, looking rather undignified. "Shut up!"

He doesn't cease. Apparently making a trained killer look like a snobby five year old is actually quite entertaining if one is insane enough to try.

"Zatknis!" She demanded, getting quite angry. Her Russian curse words only come out in emotional situations.

"I'm sor - " Clint started, chest still heaving with laughter. "I'm - " He started a second wind of laughter.

That's it; Natasha's had enough of his bullshit. Despite the bullet wound, she still was a formidable force.

One second Clint was rolling around, laughing at the expense of his partner, and the next he was gasping for breath in the death grip of his partner's thighs.

"Tasha..." He gasped briefly, until she tightened her legs like a vice.

He tapped her leg with his palm twice, but his hits are weakened from a lack of oxygen to the muscles. Reluctantly, but almost immediately, she released him.

"Fuck, woman," Clint gasped between breaths. "You're gonna ... kill me ... one day."

"What was that?" She motioned a hand to the tea.

"Earl Grey," he responded, "It's bitter."

_No shit it's bitter._

"I noticed." She glared at him.

"I like my tea like I like my women - cold, bitter, made by fire ... emotionless, with a possible psychological issue, serious PTSD, trust issues, and - "

All the air is sucked out of his lungs with a sharp elbow to the ribcage.

"Don't do that again," Natasha ordered, referencing both the stunt with the tea, and his commentary.

"I won't," Clint promised. The honest glint in his eyes made a convincing case.

Natasha nodded, accepting the promise as one might take to an apology.

"Though dying in your thighs, that's a damn good way to go," Clint teased, a satisfactory rumble to his voice.

Natasha shut him up with one effective death glare, and a fist ever so subtly directed towards his crotch.

They don't speak again that night, except for a polite exchange of "Goodnight." followed by a " 'night Romanoff."

But in the darkness of the ruins, Natasha sipped her tea again.

She can never fully trust any person again. But maybe, just maybe, it's okay to trust a hawk with a penchant for bitter tea.

Maybe.


End file.
